


Poetry

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (that means no specific bodyparts), Erotic Poetry, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Smut, Smut Without Bias, Softcore Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Jehan frowns at the page. “I don't like this. Iwantto like it, but the words don’t sing to me.”With a shake of their head they draw their feet onto the bed, scoot backwards and go to sit nestled between Grantaire’s legs. They’re still holding the book, but it’s temporarily forgotten. In Grantaire’s arms they could forget almost everything.With a hum he shifts his weight until they are settled comfortably in his embrace. “Recite it to me?” he says. “Maybe that will help...”Fluff, smut and poetical nonsense.





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this and I am uploading it and running away.

All his usual vices aside, Grantaire is quite convinced that it would be nearly impossible to find a pleasure greater than watching Jehan read poetry.

When they write their face is impenetrable, transfixed while they put the words on the paper, but when they read their face is alive with every thought and feeling in their mind. Their lips move silently, almost but not quite mouthing the words of the lines their eyes are eagerly gliding past and the expression in those eyes changes as fast as the light at sunrise. Grantaire has tried to capture them many times, but no matter what he uses, the image never does them justice.

At present Jehan’s expressions are not happy, however, and not in the way Grantaire is used to seeing them when they are reading. He is used to sorrow, horror and indignation flooding their sweet face as they progress through their poetry, but what is written on their face right now is dissatisfaction.

Grantaire doesn’t disturb them, but he does really wonder what could be bothering them. So when they finally put down the book with a sigh and look at him he is very curious.

♥

“Anthologies,” Jehan says slowly, struggling to find the right words. “Are…difficult.” That is hardly eloquent, but it’s a start.

Luckily Grantaire is very capable of asking questions when he feels they are needed. “How so?” he hums.

“With stories I don’t mind,” Jehan says, trying to explain it to themself as well as to Grantaire. “But with poems… I don’t like seeing them pulled away from their author and time and put on pages stuck between others that are nothing like them. I can’t like a poem from an anthology like I could appreciate it in its original work.”

Grantaire smiles. “Ever the purist,” he says teasingly.

Jehan huffs. That is not what they meant.

“Shame on you,” Grantaire scolds lovingly. “You want to deprive literature students of compiling their favourites and writing clever prefaces.”

Jehan smiles and gives him a push. “The preface _was_ clever,” they admit. “But-” They frown at the page. “-I do not like this. And I want to like it. But the words don’t sing to me.” 

“Not everything can be a masterpiece,” Grantaire hums amusedly, looking up at them from where he’s lying sprawled out on the bed.

That is not what Jehan meant either. They do not dislike these words, but when they read they do not feel them humming inside them like they ought to do.

“You look cross,” Grantaire says and he sits up with a pained grimace. “My soul can’t stand to see Jehan Prouvaire looking cross.”

Jehan smiles in spite of themself. With a shake of their head they draw their feet onto the bed, scoot backwards and go to sit nestled between Grantaire’s legs. There really is no better place to be in their opinion. They lean into him, their back against his chest and let him wrap his arms around them from behind. “There,” they smile. “Not cross anymore.”

“Good,” Grantaire mutters with a grin in his voice.

Jehan smiles and leans into him some more. They’re still holding the book, but it’s temporarily forgotten. In Grantaire’s arms they could forget almost everything.

Grantaire shifts his weight until Jehan is settled comfortably in his embrace and taps on the cover of the book. “Recite it to me?” he says. “Maybe that will help.”

Jehan can feel a hot blush creeping onto their cheeks, but they ignore it. Blushing in front of Grantaire…what nonsense. They glance at the page they had been reading. The words still look flat. The heat on their cheeks ebbs away. Flat words are a terrible thing. “I’ll try,” they sigh.

Jehan raises the book, straightens their shoulders a little and recites:

“Lying asleep between the strokes of night  
I saw my love lean over my sad bed…”

They dutifully read the lines, which they can hear are terribly devoid of feeling, until Grantaire makes a soft sound right beside their ear. Jehan stops reading and turns their head to the side. They cannot quite look Grantaire in the eye, but they can see him slightly better this way.

“I don’t think you’re reading it right,” Grantaire says softly.

“Aren’t I?” Jehan asks, their voice just as low. They feel an odd sort of tension coming off Grantaire.

“No,” Grantaire mumbles. “The tone wasn’t right…”

Jehan raises the book again, feeling that strange tension wrapping around them. “Okay,” they say softly. “I’ll try again then.”

They begin again from the beginning:

“Lying asleep between the strokes of night  
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,”

And then their voice slows, almost to a drawl, because Grantaire, very slowly, leans his head down until his chin rests on their shoulder. It is nothing new, he has leaned on them like this a million times before, but somehow it feels different now. Jehan’s heart stutters but they keep reading.

“Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head,”

Grantaire is still moving. Slowly one of his arms unwraps from around their waist and reaches up. He brushes Jehan’s hair to the side and they feel a thrill that quivers in their voice when they continue:

“Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,  
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,”

Grantaire’s fingers slide gently down the curve of their neck and Jehan _feels_ they are blushing. The words tumble from their lips like they form completely different sentences to what they did before.

“But perfect-coloured without white or red.  
And her lips opened amorously, and said –  
I wist not what, saving one word – Delight.”

As they speak that last word, Grantaire’s fingers tentatively brush past their bottom lip and Jehan falls silent. They had been vexed that the words wouldn’t sing. Well they are singing now. The echo of the words sings in their mind and the echo of Grantaire’s touches still dances on their skin.

Grantaire raises his head and his voice is so low that they feel the vibrations of it passing from his body to theirs before they hear the words. “Does that help?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jehan breathes and their own voice surprises them. It sounds heavy and gluttonous and they hear Grantaire’s breath hitch a little in return.

"Read the next verse?,” he mutters. “I mean…only if you want to.”

Jehan breathes in slowly and looks back at the page. They are still holding the book raised in their hands, but they wish they had their hands free… Silently they swallow and read on.

“And all her face was honey to my mouth,  
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;”

Jehan knows Grantaire is looking at them and it’s _torture_ not to look back.

“The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,

One of Grantaire’s arms is still wrapped around their waist and his hand is playing with the hem of their shirt. Almost idly, but very carefully. Jehan can just feel his fingers, _barely_ touching their stomach.

“The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,”

His other hand tangles into their hair and Jehan feels dizzy. The bottom button of their shirt is open now…

“The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs  
And glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.”

The poem is over and Grantaire’s hands still. Jehan can feel his breath on their neck but his lips do not touch them. They breathe slowly so as not to make a sound and struggle against the trembling in their chest. Grantaire doesn’t move and Jehan wishes he would. Wishes he’d continue. _Continue_.

Slowly, with fire burning on their skin wherever Grantaire’s fingers touched them, Jehan turns the page. To the next poem.

“I like,” they begin and softly, very softly Grantaire’s lips press against their neck. Jehan’s eyes fall shut and the words on the page fade to black.

“What?” Grantaire murmurs against their skin. “What do you like?”

Jehan forces their eyes open and they read, every word heavy with want.

“i like my body when it is with your  
body. It is so quite new a thing.”

R’s fingertips trail over their body, not light and teasing, but deliberately, as if they are playing Jehan like an instrument. And they are. Jehan sinks into Grantaire and has to fight to keep speaking. Grantaire’s _fingers_ \- There are always jokes that Grantaire dabbles in everything and is master of nothing. Well, he is master of this.

“Muscles better and nerves more.  
i like your body.  i like what it does,”

And he’s careful, every time his fingers follow a new curve Jehan feels him slow down, as if he’s waiting for hesitation that can be felt in Jehan’s body regardless of the poetry on their lips. But Jehan doesn’t want him to stop. Whenever his fingers slow before dipping lower Jehan has to bite back the urge to spur him on. But they don’t have to. Perhaps Grantaire can read the fire on their skin, perhaps he can hear the thickness of their voice, but his touches become bolder.

“i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine”

One of Grantaire’s hands slides under their half-unbuttoned shirt and follows their spine all the way up, until his hand is grasping at the back of their neck. Jehan bows their head towards the book that is suddenly very heavy in their hands.

“of your body and its bones, and the trembling  
-firm-smooth ness and which i will”

Grantaire’s head is leaning against theirs and the hand that was at the back of their neck is now stroking past their throat and collarbones.

“again and again and again,” Jehan breathes eagerly. “-kiss,”

Almost sweet, but just betraying something of slipping self-control, Grantaire’s mouth fastens onto their neck again. Jehan moans, but they keep going, because the words- The _words_.

“kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz”

Grantaire holds them pressed against his chest and lets his free hand wander down, hesitating at the waistband of their shorts just a moment before feeling Jehan through the fabric and making them swallow a moan.

“of your electric fur,” they swallow. “-and what-is-it comes  
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,”

The button of their shorts is big and Grantaire can open it with one hand. Jehan makes such an eager sound when he does that he does not hesitate this time. He slides his hand underneath the fabric and Jehan lets their head drop back until it rests fully against his shoulder. His fingers are moving like they know Jehan’s body already. Jehan want to praise him. They want to turn around and kiss him. They want to tell him, tell _everything_. But the words aren’t finished.

With heat pooling low in their stomach and their breath spilling from their lips in shaky gusts they force their head up and blink at the page as they read in a tone that is _exactly_ as heated as these words invite:

“and possibly i like the thrill  
of under me you so quite new”

Jehan lets the book slip from their hands and turns around so abruptly that Grantaire has to fumble to not get his hands wrapped up in their clothes. Finally Jehan gets to look into Grantaire’s face and his eyes are darkened and the colour on his cheeks heightened and- Jehan presses their mouth against Grantaire’s and kisses him with enough passion to make up for the frustration of the past minutes.

Grantaire kisses back with equal enthusiasm, but it’s not enough. Jehan wraps their legs firmly around his waist and moves in Grantaire’s lap until he groans into their mouth. Jehan breaks away with a gratified gasp and Grantaire pants:

“I thought I was-”

Jehan slides their hands under his shirt and drags their fingers down his back, making him shudder and close his eyes instead of going on talking.

There is an unlaughed laugh swirling in Jehan’s chest and it’s heating them up inside, mingling with the fire Grantaire is pouring into them with every touch. They’re so happy they can’t speak, so they burry their face in Grantaire’s neck and slides a hand into his hair.

“I wasn’t done yet,” Grantaire breathes, voice faltering when Jehan grabs a handful of his curls and starts kissing his neck.

Jehan hums, but they don’t stop. Grantaire had his fun, it’s their turn. They’ve wanted to do this for _so_ long.

With a sweet, slow movement they end the kiss by opening their mouth and suddenly they sink their teeth firmly into Grantaire’s neck. His hands grab their hips and the sound that escapes his throat makes sparks snap in Jehan’s mind. But before they can do it again their arms are being unwrapped from around Grantaire’s neck and before they know it they’re being pressed firmly into the mattress.

“I wasn’t _done_ with you,” Grantaire growls and the thrill that shoots down Jehan’s body leaves them no will for resistance. They melt into the breath-stealing kiss that he presses on their lips and sigh adoringly when his hands stroke down their bare sides and he starts kissing their neck. When they suddenly feel him pull away, they look up in disagreement, however. To their surprise Grantaire looks around and grabs the forgotten book, putting it back into their hands.

“Read the next one,” he says. His voice is heavy, but it’s not an order, rather a plea.

Jehan looks at him in wonder and finally they let the laugh dancing in their ribcage ring out. “Why?” they ask warmly and they try to sit up to kiss him.

The quick hand Grantaire’s puts to their chest isn’t forceful, not at all, but it _could_ be and Jehan feels that thrill again. They stare at Grantaire with glittering eyes.

“Because poetry,” Grantaire says hotly. “I wouldn’t have waited so long for a-” He swallows. “It’s _important_."

“Ok,” Jehan breathes. Because Grantaire’s hands are roaming over their body with _such_ barely restrained eagerness and he’s looking at them with eyes _so_ full of genuine adoration that they don’t think they can bear it any longer. They swallow. “What should I read?”

“Anything,” Grantaire sighs and his head moves towards their neck again. Jehan nearly closes their eyes when his lips meet their skin, but they raise the book in one hand so they can see the page past the mess of Grantaire’s curls and force themself to read. The moment they’ve seen the title is the moment Grantaire’s hands slip between their legs again and his mouth moves past their collarbone. Jehan moans and their hand drops down to the mattress, book included.

Grantaire begins to raise his head, but Jehan slides an entreating hand into his hair to prevent him and says hastily: “No! Don’t stop- I know this one.”

Obligingly Grantaire presses a kiss on their chest and Jehan closes their eyes, searching for words they once knew. “Body,” they breathe. “Remember…”

The book slides from their hand completely, but they do not need it. They know this one. They love this one. This one sings inside of them. And Grantaire’s fingers feel past their body like they can trace the heat coursing through their veins, like he can _feel_ the singing.

“Remember-” Jehan repeats themself. “-not just how much you were loved,”

Grantaire’s hands are tugging at the fabric of their shorts and his lips are kissing slowly down their stomach. His movements are unhurried, but his breathing is fast and Jehan feels their own heart beating wildly.

“not simply-” they say, swallowing down their moans. “-those beds on which you have lain,”

The bed is soft and Jehan feels the bedding is so much softer against their skin than their clothes as Grantaire finally drags their shorts and underwear down their legs. His hands slide immediately back up their legs and Jehan struggles just a moment against the pressure he puts on their knees before they willingly spread their legs.

“but also the desire for you that shone, plainly-”

Jehan’s eyes have been opening and closing without interference of their free will, but now they look straight at Grantaire. He sits between their legs, fingers still drawing invisibly on their skin and he looks at them like… Like…

“Plainly-” Jehan breathes, staring into his eyes. “in the eyes that gazed at you,  
and quavered in the voice for you, though”

Grantaire’s fingers slide between Jehan’s legs and their breath hitches. His head ducks down, following the path of his fingers and Jehan squeezes their eyes shut. Poetry. _Poetry_.

“by some chance obstacle was finally forestalled.  
Now that everything is- _ah_!”

Grantaire’s mouth is hot and wet and _why is he stopping?_

“Again,” they beg. “ _Please_.”

“Keep going,” Grantaire breathes. “I won’t stop if you keep going-”

A whine escapes Jehan’s lips and they feel Grantaire grin against the curve of their thigh.

“Now that everything,” they try again and Grantaire’s tongue rewards them. “-is finally, finally, _finally_ -” Jehan’s spreads their legs further and Grantaire’s fingers press down onto their thighs to keep them still. “-in the past.” There is a next sentence, they are sure. Only they can barely breathe normally now. At the edge of their vision they can see Grantaire’s head moving between their legs. They don’t want to speak, they want more of _that_.

“it seems,” Jehan whispers. “-as though you did- you did- you _did_ -”

Their legs are shaking, but Grantaire is holding them down. He _cannot_ stop now. There are silk strings tugging on the very fibre of Jehan’s being. Grantaire hums and Jehan answers him, hurriedly, voice weak with pleasure:

“you did yield to those desires ―  
how they shone- _R._ ”

That last syllable comes out as a groan and they repeat it with increasing desperation until Grantaire speeds up. The silk strings are singing and ready to snap.

“remember,” Jehan pants. “-in the eyes that gazed at you,  
how they quavered in the voice for you ― body… _remember_.”

All the singing tension snaps and Jehan’s eyes open wide, flooding their mind with light. Their hands dart upwards, one pressing against their own mouth to stifle the cries that sound almost as hot and sweet as the poetry. The other grabs uselessly at the bedding for support. They are wrapped in a daze spun from hot feelings, singing words and Grantaire. _Grantaire_.

Grantaire’s face is suddenly above theirs and his grin is as delightful as it is insufferable. Jehan gasps for air, grabbing Grantaire’s shirt with both of their hands now they are free to use to them again.

“That-” they pant. “That was-” They move their lips soundlessly for a moment and give up, pressing a heated kiss on Grantaire’s mouth instead.

When they let themself fall back onto the mattress again Grantaire is smiling. “First times are supposed to be memorable, right?” he says, eyes full of laughing light.

Jehan does not know whether to laugh or scold him, so they kiss him again. And again. Because now it _really_ is their turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry (mis)used:  
> <https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50510/love-and-sleep>  
> <https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1590/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/>  
> <http://www.cavafy.com/poems/content.asp?id=285>


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